


Living Prose

by CadetDru



Series: courtship genres [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Canon Asexual Character, Control Issues, Enthusiastic Consent, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mentions of Spiders, Season/Series 02, Second Date, Trust Issues, mentions of ducks, mentions of tape recorders, mentions of worms, more enthusiastic negotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CadetDru/pseuds/CadetDru
Summary: Martin clearly hadn't planned their going out the night before.  He hadn't cleaned himself up any more than usual. He'd worn a shirt that Jon had seen dozens of times before, trousers with an inkstain on the pant leg where a pen had clearly broken. He was past due for a haircut.  He'd gotten more and more lax about it while he was living in the Archives, and hadn't seemed to fall back into his earlier routine. It was still all evenly sandy brown, not a gray hair to be seen. Even when he looked frazzled, he still seemed to make it look like a simultaneously permanent and temporary state.Jon had spent a lot of time thinking about Martin's appearance. Alcohol had hit Jon harder than he thought. His head was a muddled mess. He couldn't focus because he couldn't think of anything (but Martin). Martin who got home safe and sound and had called Jon to check in. Martin was so kind, so earnest, so eager to please.Jon gave in to his twisting thoughts and called Martin.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: courtship genres [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932031
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	Living Prose

Jon didn't think that he could read people, exactly. It was more than people seemed to follow certain individualistic storylines, certain tropes to a person. Martin seemed to be an open book, but he was written in a cipher that Jon couldn't decode. 

Martin had asked him out for a Friday night drink. They had a perfectly fine time. It didn't mean anything in particular. A boss and his subordinate bonding; workplace friends connecting. Jon absolutely didn't have it in himself to be able to ask Martin out so it was just as well that Martin had.

Jon woke up at home alone, on a crisp Saturday morning. He was in his home, out of his work clothes. He'd slept, dreamt a little. Nightmares as was his usual, but he did get some real sleep. He hadn't dreamt about Martin, which was a little surprising since they'd had a drink the night before. A disruption to his normal routine should have been more than enough to spark a new series of dread. 

Breakfast was black coffee. He'd made it too bitter, which seemed about what he deserved. He added sugar in it a spoonful at a time, vaguely trying to read before coming back to add more sugar, more coffee, more of anything. It didn't taste quite right. He hadn't drank that much, hadn't gotten a hangover. He still felt off. 

Martin clearly hadn't planned their going out the night before. He hadn't cleaned himself up any more than usual. He'd worn a shirt that Jon had seen dozens of times before, trousers with an inkstain on the pant leg where a pen had clearly broken. He was past due for a haircut. He'd gotten more and more lax about it while he was living in the Archives, and hadn't seemed to fall back into his earlier routine. It was still all evenly sandy brown, not a gray hair to be seen. Even when he looked frazzled, he still seemed to make it look like a simultaneously permanent and temporary state.

Jon had spent a lot of time thinking about Martin's appearance. Alcohol had hit Jon harder than he thought. His head was a muddled mess. He couldn't focus because he couldn't think of anything (but Martin). Martin who got home safe and sound and had called Jon to check in. Martin was so kind, so earnest, so eager to please.

Jon gave in to his twisting thoughts and called Martin. 

"What's wrong?" Martin said. It was a terrible telephone greeting and Jon told him so, which did a wonderful job of starting them off on the wrong foot. 

Jon set his coffee down carefully before he continued. "I was just wondering what you're doing today."

Martin laughed nervously. He clicked his tongue and his voice sounded different afterwards. "Not trying to get me to come look into something?" Martin was just as suspicious of their world as Jon was. Neither of them could believe a thing the other said. 

"No," he stammered. Jon had the sudden desire to have an old-fashioned phone cord to twist and twirl the spiral as he talked. He'd been too young to do that when it was more feasible; he was starting to believe in the common misperception of his own age.

"Yes, I'm free," Martin said, the words coming easily. "What did you have in mind?"

"I hadn't gotten that far," Jon said. "I just wanted to see you again." Sappy but true. He didn't know what Martin might be up to when Jon wasn't watching him. He didn't trust Martin. He just daydreamed about him. Different situations completely. 

He wanted Martin where he could keep his eyes on him at all times. He wanted Martin with that half afraid/half impressed look on his face that seemed to have been tinged with disappointment lately. He couldn't expect adoration or affection, but fear and respect seemed reasonable. 

"You don't mean that," Martin was saying. 

"Why not?" Jon found he was pacing his flat, which was at least one feature that his mobile had working for it. This wasn't how he'd imagined this going. He'd expect immediate and enthusiastic agreement. He always expected that from Martin.

"I mean, it seemed like a good first date and all," Martin said blithely. "Still, it wasn't 'call me the next morning' level good."

"That's why you didn't call me?" Jon said, focusing on the wrong thing. It hadn't been a date. It could have, but it hadn't been. He had already explained to Martin that he was asexual, and it had seemed to land. Jon didn't know how to explain that this didn't mean that he wasn't capable of forming romantic attachments without it sounding like Jon was confessing to something.

"I wouldn't dare," Martin said, with fake shock that seemed to hide real fear. It would be the quiet kind of fear, of being rejected and mocked. "You'd just find more work for me to do. I mean, I didn't even tell you about my sadistic boss who doesn't appreciate me. Nothing but a mood-killer. I guess holding that back can guarantee a next morning call."

"Your boss is a mood-killer or talking about them?" Jon asked. The words were out before he fully recalled just who the hell Martin worked for. "Elias doesn't appreciate you?" he said, hoping both that it wasn't and exactly what Martin had meant.

"Sorry," Martin said. It seemed more like a reflex than a genuine apology. He'd meant what he'd said. "I didn't mean anything by it, I'm sorry." 

Something churned in Jon's stomach, shame or anger or confusion. 

Martin often seemed to be able to say things that would worm their way (no, anything else) under Jon's skin. Jon couldn't block out the image. Martin had been pursued by the worms. Jon had been tricked by the worms. Jon hadn't cared what was happening to Martin at first. Now, he was all but certain that he'd chop down Martin's door if he dared to call in sick

Jon had been quiet for too long. "I think you're projecting your masochistic desires onto me. I'm not a sadist."

Martin laughed too loudly at that. "I know you better than you think, Jon. You don't have to lie to me. I might not mind it." Martin said. "I did answer the phone after all."

"Because you thought I was calling for work-related reasons."

"No, just wild optimism. Same reason I asked you out for drinks last night." 

"You wanted.... you hoped," Jon said. Martin had deliberately called the man he was calling a sadist. There were possibilities there.

Jon was struck with the thought of being a spider spinning a web to trap Martin. That image was worse than the worms. No spiders, no worms, just apparently some kind of cat-and-mouse game. Small domesticated mammals were safe to think about. 

"I think we're alike, Martin. Or complementary." Jon could have sworn he heard the click of a tape recorder coming on. "There's this look of concern on your face. You're always so flustered, so worried you're not going to do or say the right thing. Except when I take a certain tone with you, when I convince you just for a moment that I am in control and I know what I'm doing. Then you just... let go of it all. You actually seem calm, happy even. Like it's what you want to..."

"Jon," Martin said. Jon wasn't sure if it was warning or urging on, so he interpreted it as the one he liked better.

"You can tell me I'm wrong, tell me I'm reading too much into it, that I'm just seeing what I want to see." Jon started to lose steam. 

Martin hummed a short breath. "I don't know what you want to see. Forget I said anything about sadism, remember that you wanted to see me today."

"Right," Jon said, ready to move past it. There was still so much wrong with how Martin was phrasing this. Jon felt that he had permission to actually say some of this since Martin had made the first move. He'd let Martin lead on the next step as well, just to make sure he was comfortable. "What would you like to do?"

"We could feed bread to ducks at St James's Park."

"Is that what you normally do on a Saturday?" Jon said,

"No, but I panicked and now I'm committed to the idea," Martin said. "I certainly did not get the idea from a book that described it as how agents would have clandestine meetings." It was a sweet thought. Many things that Martin said were sweet.

Being charming was an action, not a character trait. If Jon felt a tightness in his chest at Martin's words, it just meant that Martin was having an effect on him. "Is bread even good for ducks?"

"I don't know, Jon," Martin said, verging into a whine. "You haven't had me look into any ducks. It was just a thought. Do you want to go out or..."

"You...could come over? We could... watch TV?"

Martin was actively laughing at him. "I'll bring some takeaway in a bit."

Jon denied any preferences or allergies. He confirmed that Martin knew where Jon was (since he did not actually live at the Institute). Phone call finished and invitation extended, Jon wandered around his flat to see if it was fit for company. He wasn't interested in impressing Martin. He just wanted…

He wanted to find what flat surface was now holding his coffee cup. It was cold and still bitter. Jon made more coffee to focus on anything else.

Martin showed up, pizza in hand, sooner than Jon expected. Jon was famished. He realized in the last 24 hours he had only eaten at Martin's prodding. He was too much at Martin's mercy. 

Martin hadn't shaved since Thursday at the least, was wearing a T-shirt and different pair of rumpled trousers, and was absolutely glowing. Jon was willing to bet Martin had rushed out of bed just to deliver this pizza to Jon.

They settled at Jon's kitchen table, casual as could be. Martin declined any coffee, seemed almost insulted that Jon was drinking it. They ate in relative silence, moved to Jon's couch. "What shall we talk about?" Martin asked. 

"Used up all our conversation last night?" Jon said. "Or you could tell me about this boss of yours."

"Oh, I couldn't," Martin said. "You'll just end thinking that I like him."

Jon smirked. "Do you?"

"This is vaguely a second date," Martin said. "It would be rude."

"What do you like about this sadistic boss?" Jon said. There was a tape recorder click somewhere, the echo of a memory. 

"It's not his looks, but it's what I noticed first. As soon as we met, he just...glared at me. It's awful, that shouldn't be an attractive quality. He has these piercing eyes," Martin said. "He's handsome, I think. It's hard to say, he doesn't seem to sleep, he weights about as much as my left leg, he's just bones and angles. Good cheekbones. They lead the gaze back up to his eyes."

"So, you like his face?"

"And his wrists," Martin said, looking down at Jon's own. "Slender wrists and long fingers." Martin's breath caught. 

Jon was entranced, embarrassed, a little horrified. 

"And it's the way that he talks. He can just be so...harsh. Acidic. Caustic."

"I'm familiar with the synonyms for harsh," Jon said. Martin was the first that day to use them to Jon's face. 

"It drives me crazy," Martin said so softly that Jon could have chosen not to hear it. "It hurts and it doesn't. He can use his voice like a lash." There was something reverential and envious in Martin's voice there. "Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but it might dissolve from the chemical burn."

"Never has anything nice to say?" Jon said. He wasn't half as cruel as Martin was making him sound, he couldn't be.

"Sometimes," Martin allowed. "Maybe not often enough but maybe I don't earn it enough."

Jon didn't know if he was supposed to argue with it or not, if he agreed with it or not. "He doesn't sound like my cup of tea. I can't deal with the sadism."

"I need a man who'll appreciate my tea," Martin said, sounding genuinely sad for a moment. "Every..." His voice nearly broke. "Every day."

"You make wonderful tea. I think your supervisor agrees with that. It's probably just distracting. He just wants things neat and orderly."

Martin mumbled in agreement.

"And you are very distracting," Jon said. He was constitutionally incapable of listing off attributes the way that Martin had managed. 

Martin's blush was very interesting, reminding Jon that Martin had referred to this as their second date. "This is where you tell me that I can do better than him, and...and..." Martin trailed off. 

"You can, I'm sure. But I don't think I want to encourage that," Jon said. "I want you to be happy, of course."

"Of course?" Martin echoed, meeting Jon's eyes.

Jon couldn't say anything more until Martin spoke. He needed a prompt. The words were there, all of them, too many of them and in the wrong order. Martin didn't speak. Martin didn't look like he might ever speak again. 

Jon reached to cup Martin's unshaven cheek, stroking his fingers towards Martin's ear. Martin stared at Jon, holding his breath. Martin was trembling so that Jon expected to feel tear tracks there. Jon moved his thumb closer to Martin's lips, not quite touching. The idea that he was taking liberties with a subordinate started to slowly crash over him. The idea that he should stop crashed and broke apart on the jagged, broken hope that this was alright.

Martin laid his hand over Jon's, slight pressure from his much larger palm just for a second. Martin's eyes were closed as he held his hand there. He opened them as he let go. He seemed to be quite easily overwhelmed. He couldn't tolerate touch and sight at the same time. Jon was willing to see for them both.

He trailed his fingertips down to Martin's throat. He could feel Martin say his name as he heard the familiar sound. Jon shook his head, pulling his hand back. "Sorry, I..."

"Wanted to be sure that I was real?" Martin said, his voice sounding choked. Jon hadn't applied any pressure, so it wasn't physically his fault. 

Jon took a deep breath. "I don't know. It feels like my world is falling apart, and just some little things seem solid. I want you to be solid." His hands were shaking as much as his voice as he clasped them together.

"I feel solid," Martin said. He took Jon's hand. "I'm not going anywhere if you don't want me to."

"Hmmm," Jon said, looking down at the floor. "What should I do with you?" He wasn't entirely asking for permission, mostly just brainstorming aloud. He switched gears. Martin's consent was necessary but assumed at that point. Martin's desires were the same, necessary assumptions. Jon just didn't know where to go with them. 

"What can I do for you?" Martin asked. He laughed, just a little. 

Jon sighed. He wasn't ready for that kind of question, and reluctantly admitted it. Martin didn't seem to judge him for it, but Martin was still difficult to read. They relaxed for a while longer, chatted about the potential future of ducks, and Martin went home. As the door shut behind him, Jon heard the echo of a tape recorder shutting off. 


End file.
